


5 Times Phil spent New Year's Eve with Clint (and 1 time Clint spent it with Phil)

by megazorzz



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: BADASS PHIL, Badass Clint, Feelings, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fury's Softer Side, Getting Together, Holiday, Holidays, M/M, Marriage Proposal, NEWLY EDITED, New Year's Eve, New Years, Pining, Requited Love, Started as fluff and developed other things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets from the first six years of Phil and Clint's relationship, all taking place on New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Times Phil spent New Year's Eve with Clint (and 1 time Clint spent it with Phil)

 

I.

            “Barton? Do you copy, over?” The radio only returned static. Gusts of wind howled through the abandoned warehouse and lashed him across the face. Phil Coulson braced himself against the pine tree, shaking in the blistering cold.

            “Estevez, do you copy? Over.”

            “Roger, sir. Barton ran off again. Fuck,” the man panted. “Received heavy fire—I think my leg is broken. My mobility is limited, over.”

            “Where did Barton go? Over.” Phil didn’t get his hopes up.

            “He disappeared into a vent. I wasn’t able to follow. Any orders? Over.”

            “Maintain radio silence and your position. Disable any hostiles. Over.”

            “Roger, wilco. Over and out.”

            He pulled out his binoculars. Four lights flashed in the empty windows and faded from view—lanterns this time, not gunfire. An hour remained until backup was due to arrive. After everything that's gone wrong with this mission, Phil never wanted to see snow again for as long as he lived and, at this rate, he wouldn't see the sun rise either.

            Wu, Cortez and Smith were down. Hanley and McGinn were nowhere in sight. At 2206 hours, Estevez and Barton reported in. The Dead-Ringers—Phil remembered Barton’s guffaw when he heard the arms smugglers' title—had Barton and Estevez, a couple of rookies, cornered in the southeast quadrant. They were feisty and dangerous for such a small group, which meant they believed in their cause if nothing else. Clearly SHIELD had underestimated them; Cortez was one of two senior agents sent on the mission. It was supposed to be child’s play, and now Phil had to complete at least three copies of form 24-B to be sent to their next of kin.

            Sneering against the lash of cold, Phil zipped down the line from his hiding place in the treetops. First it was the snow, then misinformation, and then Barton running off like a complete rookie, balking at orders, insisting that he had better ideas that crumpled their itinerary.

            He crunched toward the warehouse, the wind covering his tracks. The moon hung high and cold overhead, illuminating the icy squalls. He kept to the shadows, creeping along as quickly as the gale would allow, shielding his face against it.

            A guard stood watch at the east entrance, about 50 meters from his current location. Phil dove in to the small trench created by the winds and crawled into cover. Slowly he crept behind the guard. Then it was clockwork: a strike to the back of the left-knee and a firm grip on the guard’s windpipe and he was out cold.

            Phil scanned the perimeter. No movement in the snow. And no one right inside the doorway. He searched the guard’s pockets and found a map of the area, printed on some sort of wax paper. It had guard routes and locations. Hopefully this intel was correct. He tinkered with the lock and then he was inside.

            SHIELD made contact with the cell a month ago, at about the time people were already weary of Holiday tunes in their department stores and over the airwaves. The Dead-Ringers wanted to send a message: an end to mindless frivolity and spending, all the hoopla (Phil shared a chuckle with Barton over that one) and decadence. Phil recalled their digitally warped voices and their night-vision goggles. They looked like they jumped from the comics Phil used to read. They seemed pretty clichéd, but it was hard to laugh at a group that demonstrated some explosive firepower; a small shopping mall in New Jersey went up in flames in the night and the Dead-Ringers left a love letter.

            Phil hiked the man over his shoulder and hid the body inside. He was tempted to leave him in the snow—like they left Smith—but he needed to bring some of them back alive. Plus it would be more unwelcome and messy paperwork for him. That is, if he made it out in one piece.

            Heavy footfalls resounded in the corridor. Phil ducked into a shadowy corner.

            Shrouded in darkness, he performed two more sharp jabs and soon pinhead number one had a partner to join him in the broom closet. Phil cracked his knuckles. He wouldn’t be able to keep this up. They’d be asked to report, no doubt. The Dead-Ringers would realize something was up. Take them all down at the same time, no problem, SHIELD doesn’t fool around, but they shot them in the foot and scattered their rookie squad. So much for routine.

            He snuck down the hall, using the map to approximate Estevez’s location. The place was a maze, nothing like the simple floor plan that they had acquired at HQ. Hallway after hallway looked exactly alike.

            He froze. A cold barrel jabbed him in the base of his skull. Phil raised his hands.

            “Don’t move.”

            “Do you see me moving?” Phil shot back.

            The man behind him chuckled his voice garbled by a voice-disguising device. From the angle of the barrel, Phil figured he had a good five inches on him. Still, height doesn't matter when there’s a gun to your head.

            “You won’t stop us. We will get our message out.”

            “By blowing up the Times Square? On New Year’s?” Phil scoffed. That would get him talking, give Phil time to think.

            “New generations of Americans will be able to see past the smoke and flame in time. They’ve been fed filth and garbage so long that seeing our symbol of hope will enlighten them.”

            “It’s not really original. I mean, New Year’s Eve? Too much groundwork for it be original symbolism, don’t you think?”

            The garbled voice chuckled. “I know what you’re doing. Don’t worry this will be painless.”

            Phil shut his eyes, breathed deep and waited. The gun cocked. From nowhere, a body dropped behind them. Three quick thwacks and the man crumpled to the floor.

           “Looks like I’m not a minute too soon,” Barton said.

           Phil dropped his hands and turned swiftly, drawing his glock. “Or maybe you knew exactly when to show up.”

           Barton cracked a small grin. He tossed Phil a stack of papers. “Looks like you have the last two.”

           Phil pulled out the plans and routes. He laid the translucent pages over one another and shined his flashlight through it. The ink overlapped and created new routes and a direct path to the control center, losing the misdirection in the layers. “How’d you know to do this?” Phil asked, cocking an eyebrow.

           Clint shrugged. “They fed us false info before. They knew we’d be able to take a few out. They figured we would get excited and follow the map right away.” Clint’s knuckles whitened as he made fists. “It was a trap. Wu and Cortez should have seen that coming.”

           Phil looked on the man. Sandy hair, big-eyes, compact build. He hardly knew him a month and yet Barton looks like he’s seen so much pain in his life. Yet he still had that wary grin and his spry pugnacity. "You think I had a hand in this?"

           “I’m sorry,” Phil said. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of any wrongdoing.”

           Clint’s hand grazed his as he took the completed map. He circled the hidden chambers with a pen.

           “It’s okay. It's not like I'm an angel, anyhow.” He circled a room with a marker. “Besides, the ball’s about to drop and we have a bomb to disarm.” He jogged down the hallway and called back, “After this is over, we’ll sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ or whatever. Maybe you’ll get a New Year’s smooch, Coulson.”

           Phil stood there in the hallway, the masked man groaning slightly at his feet. Phil’s face was flushed and not from the cold.

 

 

II.

 

            “Damn,” Clint huffed, shuddering. “Do they always have to put us in the freezer?”

            Phil fastened the last lock around the suspects’ wrists. “Not around our wards, Barton.” Phil places a blanket over their laps and locked the cell behind him, speaking French to them.

            He followed Clint through the corridor, keeping his eyes level. “Looks like we will be here until tomorrow,” Phil said

            Clint groaned. They reached a small kitchen. “So much for the New Year’s Party, eh Coulson?”

            “Keep your head on the mission, Barton. We’re not out of this yet,” Phil said, pulling out a small notepad and going over his notes. So far, everything seemed to be in order.

            Clint crossed to the fridge, eyeing the contents. “Score.”

            Phil cracked a smile, but was careful to obscure it with a hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat. Clint turned and cocked an eyebrow, “Feeling frisky, sir?”

            Running over his checklist, Phil noted that everything was as it should be—an improvement over last year’s fiasco, for sure. Barton waved the fresh bottle in his face, with his stupid grin and his big eyes and his boyish excitement. Phil glanced between him and the vodka.

            He couldn’t say no. Who knows when they’d have the chance again? “Just wait. I’ve gotta test that first.”

            Clint cheered. “What? Are you gonna check it for prints?”

            Phil popped the bottle and poured a shot, smacking away Clint’s reaching hand. He gave him an austere face. “I’m checking it for poisonous materials. We have no idea what they might have put in here. It could be jet fuel for all we know.”

            The archer’s face softened and reflected his severity. “You’re right, sir.” He stretched scratched the back of his head, pulling up the hem of his shirt revealing an inch or two of skin. Phil blushed and kept his eyes down. “Wouldn’t be the first time I lost my head.”

            Reaching into his bag for his poison kit, Phil eyed the man, trying to get a read on him. Clint sat down and arched his back, looking at the ceiling, leg jiggling. Phil eyed his Adam’s apple.

            He dropped several drops with an eyedropper into the glass. No reactions billowed in the liquid. All clear. Phil studied Barton.

            “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

            Clint sighed deeply, keeping his gaze on the ceiling. “I know you have the files written up in dodeca-tuplet. I know you have written down somewhere that I wasn’t at fault.”

            “What are you referring to?”

            “Last year. Exactly this time last year, in fact.”

            Phil stood up and grabbed two fresh shot glasses, giving their rookies sleep and guard schedules for the suspects over the radio. When he turned, Clint’s eyes met his. Phil looked away.

            “If it weren’t for you, I’d be a dead man, Barton. You…you carried us through the night. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to interrogate you immediately afterwards.” Phil poured Clint a shot and he merely stared at it. “The debrief was enough.”

            “I…didn’t tell you the whole story.”

            Phil’s heart stopped. “Oh?” He poured himself a shot.

            “Estevez told you how I…how I ran off.” He scooted back from the table, hanging his head between his knees. “I disabled a guard, got his map and discovered their little trick.”

            Phil reached across the table. Barton put his hands on the table. “Before that, I had sent Cortez and Wu into a trap. I didn’t see their whole patrol route on the maps I had--from before Estevez and I got cornered. And then I was too late. I killed them. It's my fault.”

            Phil’s heart sank low and cold. “You didn’t kill them, Barton. The Dead-Ringers did. And then they paid for it. All thanks to you.”

            Clint wiped his eyes. “You mean it?” Hanley and Mcginn passed through the room. Phil gave them a stare and tilted his head toward the adjacent door. The duo passed through. Hanley lingered in the door, her red lips smirking almost imperceptibly. She shut the door quietly behind her.

            “Not that I fully condone your reckless behavior, but why did you think I asked to be your handler? You have a good head under pressure. You're able.” Phil placed his hand on his glass and placed it on Clint's side of the table. "Even if you are a bit of a smart ass."

            “Do you mean it?”

            "Of course I do. You're a total smart ass," Phil said. He smiled wide and held his glass up high. “To Cortez and Wu and Smith.”

            “To Cortez, Wu and Smith.” Phil struggled to put it down. He wasn’t much of a drinker. Heat rushed to his face and maybe his crotch.

            “That smarts,” Phil said. “I think I should stop while I’m ahead.”

            “Awwww come on, Coulson. Another one? For me? It’s a holiday, after all.”

            Phil withheld a smile. “Okay Barton.”

 

\+ + +

 

            The evening dwindled down into night, and, sure enough, the bottle evaporated before their eyes.

            “Barton?” Phil could feel the fire in his cheeks and the burn in his chest. “It’s almost midnight.”

            “Yeah?”

            “There was something else I wanted to ask you about.”

            Clint hummed. He was curled up in the corner. Phil didn’t remember when they had set up the sleeping bags, in between Phil’s war stories and Clint’s teenage tales of the open road, the night had slipped further and further into the New Year. Phil didn't want to be anywhere else.

            Clint hummed once more, pulling the bag over himself. “This was fun,” he hummed, content. “I don’t even feel cold anymore.”

            The room swayed. The night was quiet, save for the occasional radio-transmission from Mcginn and Hanley. 

            “You,” Phil paused. What he was about to do was pure lunacy and went against half of the regulations against fraternization: interacting inappropriately with a subordinate--being inebriated at that--proposing unprofessional behavior, things that only could have resulted in a flood of cross-examinations and ethics trials. God knows what else would result, but he didn’t care. The cracked clock on the wall drove to midnight, second by second.

            “Last year...you also said something about a New Year’s smooch?”

            The archer snored in reply, out like a light. Phil sighed. He looked so harmless when he slept.

            He stood up, feeling the full rush of the vodka in his knees and toes. He knocked over to the corner and zipped up the rest of Barton’s sleeping bag. The clock ticked. The ball must have dropped by now.

            “Happy New Year, Clint.”

           

III.

 

            Phil was a little tipsy. He was politely mingling with the lower-level agents. As modestly as he carried himself, he still inspired no small amount of awe in them. They practically fawned over him. He sipped his champagne. A little drink couldn’t hurt the healing process, though it made his head throb. The splendid decor didn't help matters, with their shining tinsel and neon lights.

            He checked is watch and looked over their shoulders. It was 10:13 and no sign of Barton. He wasn’t surprised. He left him a four voice messages. He said that SHIELD threw a sufficiently good party, earlier that evening, pressing the phone to his left ear instead of his right, to avoid the stitches. He scoffed at himself. He must have sounded desperate.

            “Excuse me, I have a call I need to make." The junior agents moaned in play-dismay. He crossed over to the bar, glasses clinking all around him, grandiose toasts sounding left and right. He could understand why—their numbers were constantly shifting at SHIELD. Some flocked in circles, eyes moist and laughter erupting. Some sat alone near the open bar, stirring their drinks, eyes glazed over and hollowed.

            Phil ran his fingers over his stitches. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t resist. And he thought he had a boring haircut before. Now half of his head was shaved, which would have been fine on a DJ or even on Barton, but he was too old to pull it off.

            The bartender smiled at him. “Yes, sir?”

            “Oh, I’ll have a champagne. Another, I mean.” The lights seemed to flicker. Fizzy glass in hand, he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and looked out over the city lights, which flickered in the night. He pulled out his phone and listened to Barton’s voice message.

            “Maybe, Coulson. Maybe. I’ll see how I’m feeling, 'kay?”

            He listened to it three times and tucked his phone in his breast pocket. Barton had been off recently. His aim was perfect, as always, but he cast his gazes downward and far off whenever Phil was near. He was like that ever since their operation.

            “You cut it pretty close, Coulson,” Fury said, joining him by the window. “But we knew you two could pull it off.”

            “Thank you, sir.” Coulson finished his glass. Fury grabbed two from a passing platter. “But just for clarity’s sake, are you talking about the trio of would-be assassins or the hail of bullets I dodged? Or every other time I had a gun barrel trained on my skull and lived to tell the tale?”

            Fury laughed. “You’re lucky you only got grazed. Way to use your head.”

            “Very funny.” His phone vibrated near his chest. “I’m sure you have some grandiose speech to give. Do you mind if I take this?”

            “Not at all, Phil. You be careful now.” He gave him a stern stare that dissolved into another grin. “It’s nice to see you getting out. If I don't catch you again, Happy New Year, Phil.”

            He clapped Coulson on the back. “Happy New Year, Nick.”

            Once he was a safe distance away, Phil flipped open his SHIELD-issue phone.  “Hello, Barton.”

            “Hey. Listen, I don’t think I can make it. I--I just need to get away from all that tonight.”

            “No, no. I understand. They were about to launch into the pomp and speeches soon anyway. I know that’s not really your thing.”

            Clint chuckled. “Thanks.” Phil could hear heavy rock music playing in the background, laughter and raucous cries. “Listen, do you wanna get out of there? That is, if it’s not against any regulations?”

            The music dimmed at SHIELD. “I wouldn’t mind that. Did-did you have a place in mind?” It was 10:30.

 

\+ + +

 

            Phil decided to ditch the tie. What the hell. He stood there, bathed in the neon glow as people passed him by, swelling in their emotional displays, waxing poetic, lush in their dresses, suits and sequins. New York was warm that year. He ditched the scarf too.

            Clint spotted him through the window after a double-take. He rushed outside, stopping short of Coulson’s toes. Clint could smell the booze on him, but his eyes were still bright, if distant. Phil’s chest burned.

            “I didn’t think you’d make it!”

            “Well, it was a tempting offer.” He scratched his stitches through his hat. “I thought that I could use a little time away from HQ too.”

            Clint took his arm and Phil jumped. “Let’s get inside. It’s a riot in there.”

            People were packed wall-to-wall, smiles illuminated by the neon lights and the occasional (illegal) sparkler. Clint slid between the bodies, elbow anchoring Phil by his side.

            Clint slammed his hands down on the bar. “Two shots. Vodka.”

            “Really, Barton?”

            “Come on, it’s sort of a tradition now.”

            He and Phil made a toast and downed the liquor. Clint swayed in bursts, moving from lethargy to his normal self. Phil couldn't place Barton's pain.

            In spite seemingly shifting moods, Clint dragged him onto the dance floor, laughing at his inability to catch a beat and displaying his own. Phil smiled in spite of himself. Maybe it was the champagne, the vodka, or the man dancing across from him, though the hard logic in his mind dictated that Barton wasn't an option. Coulson didn't have many.

            Clint stripped off his leather jacket, revealing a tight, black t-shirt. Phil liked to think he was showing himself off for him, but it was pretty warm in the bar. And Phil looked vaguely ghoulish with the row of stitches in his scalp. The literal warmth was the more likely explanation, he reasoned.

            Eventually they moved toward an empty corner booth, practically elbowing through the sea of bodies and after two or four more rounds, Phil asked for water, shoving a glass toward Clint. “I don’t want to hold your hair back over a toilet later.”

            “Thanks.” Clint’s eyes darted to the stitches on Phil’s partially shaved hair. “But, for the record, I’d hold your hair back if you needed me to. Every time.”

            Phil ran his fingers through his hair. “Not that there’s much to get in the way at the moment.”

            Clint frowned. “Your new do isn't that bad...Shit. Sorry, that came out wrong.” Clint nursed his glass of water and observed the crowd. “Look at them. They look like they’re having a great time, all gung-ho about leaving last year behind.”

            Phil’s heart raced. “Is there something wrong?”

            Clint looked at him and chuckled bitterly. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

            “Barton, I’ve known you for almost three years. You can tell me if something’s wrong. Off the record if need be.”

            Clint swallowed and eyed the row of black stitches again. He shifted. “That last op. You got shot in the head, Phil. Goddamn. You were bleeding and your eyes were closed and…everything stopped. I couldn't breathe.”

            Phil was silent. He glanced at the big pink neon clock.

            11:48.

            “I guess, I didn’t wanna go to the SHIELD thing because. It just reminds me how fragile this—we are.”

            “We?”

            Clint sipped his water and gazed at Phil. “It’s not the booze, I swear, or maybe it is. But maybe I’ll never feel this brave again. Might be the last chance we have before a bullet does more than give you a haircut.” He laughed. “Shit, what am I saying?”

            11:52.

            “Clint.”

            The archer, the little smartass, the man that Phil’s spent three years with, widened his eyes. “You said my name...”

            11:56 came around, and “Auld Lang Syne” sounded in millions of mouths all over the glittering city, so many words forgotten. Phil moved in next to Clint, shoulders brushing against his, eyes intense and clear. Clint turned toward him. He was right. This might be their last chance. “Maybe I’m feeling brave too,” Phil whispered.

            Drunken revelry burst out as the count down started. A bar-goer opened all the windows and let the cool, cleansing breeze and the shouts laughter and cries all down the Lower East Side pour inside. “10! 9! 8!” they all shouted.

            Phil and Clint were still, cast into shadows as everyone stood and cheered, forgetting the pain and scars of last year, all of the time spent in hospitals and in the searing cold and paralyzing heat. Maybe he was projecting too much.

            Phil moved closer and Clint didn’t stop him. “7! 6!”

            Clint asked, “This is a dream, right? I’m just sleeping and soon I’m gonna wake up?”

            “5! 4! 3! 2! 1!”

            Clint wrapped him in a vice grip and closed the gap, latching onto him, abandoning all elegance and subtlety, kissing him with such a searching, craving, violent tongue that Phil wasn’t sure if he was dreaming either.

            “Happy New Year, Clint.”

            “You too, Phil.”

           

 

IV.

 

           

            Twilight bled out of the sky across the desert horizon. Phil zipped the tent’s flap. It would be freezing before long. He and Clint watched it together, silently dreading the night. Out of the oven and into the icebox.

            “It must be something about the damn holiday, huh?” Clint said, hammering in the tent’s last spike. “It’s always, ‘Hey Phil and Clint, you guys like freezing your asses off, right? Why don’t you go on a covert operation in the goddamn arctic on your anniversary?’”

            “It comes with the territory, Clint.” Phil pulled on a knit cap and tossed the spare to Clint. “We were lucky it was a simple ‘point-and-shoot’ mission. Besides, I wouldn't call this the 'arctic.'”

            Clint mumbled, pulling off his sweaty t-shirt and pulled on a dry one. Phil stared unabashed, relishing the fact he didn’t have to disguise his stolen glances any longer.

He crawled over and nipped Clint’s shoulder. It was easy now, with the two of them. Being on larger operations was difficult if they didn’t have a private line of communication, and every day Phil worried that human resources would come knocking, seeking to validate the fervent rumors circling around SHIELD’s corridors.

            But sometimes things ventured close to romantic—provided nothing went wrong with the mission. Like right now.

He felt Clint’s pulse under his lips. It felt right. It felt his. Clint chuckled and lay back on their lone sleeping bag, murmuring soft encouragement and running his hands over Phil’s head and neck.

SHIELD would be here to take them stateside the next morning. Then they’d be able to celebrate the New Year properly.

            Phil’s fingers wandered toward Clint’s belt buckle. Clint accepted Phil’s mouth eagerly and he thrust his hips into Phil’s grasp.

            “Really, Phil? Right here?” he chuckled.

            Phil pulled back. “Well, you can still freeze your ass off if you like, but it’s a good way to conserve body heat.”

            “No kidding,” Clint groaned. His leg jiggled as Phil made a line of kisses from ear to ear. Clint reached up Phil’s shirt, his fingertips gliding up his chest, stroking his chest hair.

            “Happy New Year, Clint.”

            “Shit, it’s midnight already huh?”

            Phil shushed him.

 

\+ + +

 

            The sun hissed overhead.

            “This is Hawk and FreeBird, we are waiting for extraction. Does anyone copy? Over.” Phil listened. “H & F, awaiting extraction, does anyone copy? Over.” Phil nearly slammed the mouthpiece back into its slot. “Dammit.”

            Clint laughed weakly from the tent. Phil looked over his shoulder, makeshift turban coming loose. He tucked it behind his ear and reviewed their supplies: standard SHIELD issue tent and camp supplies, repair kit, their last emergency flare, no rations, seven bottles of water, a man on the verge of delirium and a possibly broken radio.

            Phil looked over the horizon. The blazing sun mercilessly burned them both. Phil’s face had begun to flake. Clint lay on the sleeping bag, pouring sweat, lips chapped and dry. Phil shouldn’t have let him wander off yesterday.

            “Why is it that SHIELD, the most highly funded, covert government operation in the world, can’t lock onto two simple coordinates and pick out a tent in a featureless hell-desert?” Clint laughed again. Coulson furrowed his brow.

            Phil didn’t have a comforting reply or a smart comeback. He cracked open another precious bottle and handed it to Clint. “I’m not wrong, right? They keep saying we’re such important assets—“

            “There must be something jamming our signal.” Shit. This year had gone by so smoothly too. Phil shook his head. “Drink up, Clint. I need your head in the game. We’re finished yet.”

            “Sir,” Clint toasted the air and chugged the bottle.

            In the distance, Coulson swore he saw the movement. It might have been an illusion--the heat frying his brain. But he came up with a plan.

 

\+ + +

           

            No movement, no noise for three days. For all intents and purposes to everyone who looked on their camp, the two had died of dehydration. If there was someone watching, they must have seen their display at the raid and didn’t want to end up dead like the men at their fort.

            Clint continued to laugh.  He was rambling. The heat was frying his mind. “Phil. Phil. I’m going. I’m not gonna make it.”

            “Don’t speak, Clint. I’m right here.” Phil held him in spite of the heat. Clint downed their last bottle of water. “I’m gonna get us out of this. That means you gotta be quiet.” Tears built up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Clint smiled and looked on him.

            “Phil. You’ve made me happy. You know that right?”

            “I’m gonna make you even happier as soon as we get out of this godforsaken desert. Count on it. Stay with me, Barton.” 

            They slept curled up together, freezing so that they could thaw in the morning. Phil winced when Clint stroked his sunburnt chest, but he never complained.

            The sun rose and set in its cutting cycle and on the third night, Phil heard the crunch of boots over the sand. He tensed, scrambling from the sleeping bag as silently as he could manage, careful to avoid rattling the empty bottles. His heart thrummed in his ears.

            Clint lay in the tent, his breathing shallow. He felt around for his gun

            It all happened in a flash. The tent was ripped open. Goggled eyes—night vision—looked in on them, barrels trained on their chests. Phil held his breath.  

Clint was still enough to pass as dead, too still for Phil. The goggles looked away and Phil seized his chance. Bullets flew. Phil passed out, lungs and innards dry, rattling as Barton’s heart stubbornly beat on.

 

\+ + +

 

            Phil awoke in a hospital gown. The light blinded him and the sterile smell stung his nostrils. His skin was covered in a thin cream. An IV dripped patiently into his arm. The room swayed. He was alone.

            “Clint? Clint?”

            A nurse came in with a tray. “Agent Coulson, you’re awake.” His vision began to clear. He recognized the cold surgical steel of SHIELD’s underground medical wards.

            “What happened, where’s Barton? I have to make sure he’s…” he leaned over the edge of the bed, but his dry, chapped limbs couldn’t bring him out of it.

            The nurse pressed his chest to keep him from springing up. “No, no. You’re still too weak, Coulson.” His heart beat faster and faster.

            “Get me Fury.” He swept in, his black trench coat covered with melting flakes.

            “Already here. Proceed with your duties, nurse Farley.” The man took his blood pressure, scurried about reading charts and divvying out pills.

            “Where’s Barton?”

            “He’s in a room down the hall. He’s alive. Burned out, but he should make a comeback.”

            Phil breathed a sigh of relief.

            “He radioed us. We sent a chopper in. A jamming device was found on four bodies outside of your tent. By some freak miracle, Barton managed to disable it and we were able to track your coordinates.”

            He eyed the nurse and nodded. The nurse gathered his supplies and left them.

            “You know, no doubt, that there are rules against what you and Barton have.” Phil was silent, his mouth dry.

            “For anyone else, Coulson, I would have to sent blunt reminders. But you, you know them already. I expected you of all people to follow protocol.” He sat in the steel chair near the bed.

            Phil reclined. He was weak. “What will you do?”

            Fury’s mouth twisted in a caricature of thought. Then he shrugged “Nothing.”

            Phil would have laughed. “Nothing, sir?”

            Fury threw his leg over the other. “It doesn’t affect your work. You both get the job done. Primarily, these regs exist to stop all that mushy-gushy junk from interfering from your duties. But,” Fury smiled, “if your duties aren’t impeded, I don’t see any reason to split apart the Dream Team." He laughed when Phil's jaw dropped. "Just a nickname I've heard circling around. Rookies mostly.”

            Fury crossed his arms and bored a hole into the upper corner of the ward. “This year…this year’s fuck up was an oversight on our part. Looks like tech will have to whip up some new coms—all these damn splinter cells are catching up with us too quickly for my comfort. Something that simple shouldn’t have tripped us up that badly.”

            Phil cocked an eyebrow. “You think?”

           

\+ + +

           

            In the early hours of the night, Phil removed his I.V. and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He glanced up and down the hall. All the doors were ajar and their rooms empty. He limped toward the only closed door.

            Cracking it open slowly, he threw the fluorescent light into the room, lighting Clint’s body. He was sleeping, an IV standing vigilant on the side. He was breathing and burnt from the unforgiving desert sun, but still Clint. Still beautiful beyond compare. Phil sat beside him and stroked his hair until morning.

 

 

V.

 

            Phil pulled on his suit jacket, glen check with a point-collar shirt in soft violet. He checked himself in the reflection. A noticeable swath of gray had grown in at his temples. With the way the last few years have been, he wasn’t surprised. Still, not all of it was due to stress; some of it was age. Clint walked up behind him, nuzzling his neck. Phil took his hands in his, guiding them away from his breast-pocket.

            When he pulled away, Phil disguised a pained laugh as a cough. One of his $500 silk ties was secured in a crude knot only seen on gawky teenagers going to prom.

            “What?” Clint said. Phil nodded toward the tie. “Oh…well, have you ever seen me in a suit before?”

            “I guess that’s true. Let me show you how it’s done.” Phil walked toward the closet and picked out his tie. He effortlessly looped and knotted it while Clint studied him with a cocked brow and a lascivious grin.

            “Do you like what you see?” Phil asked.

            “Have I ever told you how much I love your suits, Phil?” Clint was all hands and want. He felt Phil’s ribs and hips through the luxurious fabric. “Can’t we just stay here and get take-out?”

            Phil kissed him. “We have reservations at one of the fanciest restaurants in town, and you want to eat greasy Chinese food?”

            Clint nodded hopefully and Phil shook his head. “Let’s just try it. All right? For me?”

            “For you, Phil.”

 

\+ + +

           

            Even after arriving in by cab, being seated and ordering the most expensive wines on the list (Clint still ordered a beer anyway), Phil felt for the small, velvet box tucked away near his heart. He dabbed a drop of sweat from his forehead. No need to highlight his receding hairline.

            The modern geometric chandeliers and the high-class society put Clint on edge. He constantly squirmed in his seat, contemplating the alienating décor and counting each and every escape route.

            Phil gave his knee a reassuring stroke. “Come on Clint. This must be an improvement over our brush with the desert sun last year.”

            “I’m only here because of you, Phil.” Clint sighed and sipped straight from the bottle. “In more ways than one…”

            “Let’s just put that all behind us,” Phil sampled his wine. “Besides, I believe it was you who fixed our radio.”

            “Only after you shot the remainder of the marks when you were at death’s door.” Clint smiled mirthlessly. “But you’re right. I’d much rather be sitting here with all this gilded crap around and something to drink than losing my mind in the middle of the desert.”

            Phil laughed. “That’s the spirit—!“ Phil gasped as Clint grabbed him through the crotch of his pants.

 

\+ + +

 

            Clint finally settled in after his fourth beer—though he was more vocal about the yuppies and aristocrats that surrounded them. But it was so easy with him, Phil thought. He didn’t care if anyone stared. Hell, even he didn’t fully belong, despite his taste in suits and wine.

            The clock was ticking toward midnight and the air vibrated with chatter and excitement, in varying degrees of drunken slurs. He cleaned his plate, but it did nothing to settle his stomach. He still had one more mission to accomplish before the year was out.

            “10, 9, 8…”

            Phil stood up and reached in his pocket. Clint paused, dumbfounded, wide-eyed, collar unbuttoned, speeding pulse exposed.

            “7, 6, 5…”

            Phil got on one knee, velvet box in hand. His hands trembled as he lifted open the lid, Clint’s mouth hung open. Not knowing what kind of ring to buy, Phil labored over the single most important act of his life. He had finally settled on a plain silver band. It was something simple that could be replaced if it got lost in South America or Siberia or the French Catacombs or wherever their mad lives would lead them next.

            “4, 3, 2, 1…”

            “Clint Barton, will you marry me?”

            The room erupted in cheering. Clint was motionless, like a deer caught in the headlights. He stood up and rushed off to the bathroom. Phil followed him pressing against suits and sequins, tracking that patch of sandy hair and spilling a drink or two.

            He found Clint leaning against the vanity, examining his reflection in the mirror.

            “Clint, what’s wrong?”

            Barton wiped his eyes.

            “I can’t.”

            Phil’s heart slipped and fell. “Can’t what?”

            The archer, his man, his reason for saving humanity leaned against the wall. The attendant stood there, eyes straight ahead, wishing he hadn’t volunteered to work that evening.

            “Can you please excuse us?” Phil stuffed $50 in the man’s pocket and he was gone in a flash. Clint sank to the ground, head balancing in his hands. He knelt next to him. He waited an eternity for Clint to go on.

            “I can’t because...I can’t a good husband to you.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Clint looked up, eyes dewy and red. “I can’t do all _this_ , you know.” He gestured toward the chandelier—the bathroom even had one hanging in all its tacky resplendence. “I can’t be normal for you. We can’t be normal for each other. We can’t go back, Phil.”

            “What are you talking about?” Phil loosened his tie.

            “Phil…I love you. But this isn’t right for us. We’re soldiers, we’re freaking assassins. We don’t have lives Phil. Ours are spent making sure that others can live theirs and be safe and go to Crate & Barrel and freakin’ Olive Garden and all that shit.”

            “I’m not asking you to give me that. I’m just asking you to be with me.”

            Clint shook his head. “I am with you Phil! I’ve been with you for years. Hell, we’ve lived and practically died so many times.” He sniffed. Phil handed him a towel and sat beside him, rubbing small circles on Clint’s heaving back. “I want you to be happy—but we can’t just...buy a house in the 'burbs, get a dog. That’s what we signed up for and...I just don’t want you to be disappointed with me.”

            Clint took the ring and examined it closely. “These things…they create expectations, y’know? I’ve had too many of those smashed over the years. I don't want that to happen to you.”

            Phil sank. “Do you…do you want to split up? Is that what you're saying?”

            Clint hooked his arms around Phil’s neck. “Hell no.” His grip tightened. “I just…I can’t marry you, Phil. I love you so much…but I don’t need a ring to know I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you--however long that turns out to be.”

            Phil returned his grip. The crowd had quieted down. No doubt a good portion of them were paying their extravagant checks and were off to extravagant after-parties. The next day, they’d nurse a hangover, along with millions of others, by getting a greasy burger or a falafel, settling down to wearily eat while watching TV and dreading going to work the next day in their bleary offices, eyes trained on the computer screen—their whole existence—while Phil and Clint and the others at SHIELD were packed and shipped off all over the world. All for their sake.

            In a way, he was thankful for the danger; mortal danger had a way of heightening the senses, for better or worse. Every time he looked at Clint, he was beautiful and everything he ever wanted in a partner. In spite of the risks, he’d never trade his life at SHIELD for a normal one spent at home. Clint was right, they couldn’t go back.

            Phil sighed deeply. “That’s all I need Clint…I love you. I don’t need you to wear a fancy ring to prove it.”

            Clint pulled back, eyes still moist. He ran his fingers through Phil’s hair. “Thank you, Phil." He leaned his forehead against his. “Happy New Year. I love you.” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose in the over-plush bathroom towel. "Never thought I'd make a scene like this. Thanks for getting rid of the bathroom guy..."

            "No problem." 

           

 

VI.

 

            Clint pulled on his winter jacket and tied his scarf around his neck. It was gray cashmere with his initials monogrammed on it. It was delivered to him on Christmas morning via UPS with a sparse note, “I’ll be home soon. Sorry I missed X-mas.”

            A week later and New Year’s was settling in on the town once more. He was currently settled in a safe house in Brooklyn. He expected a call, or a message—he even kept his two-way radio active. Still no word from Phil. Eventually he decided to search for him.  

            Snow sat lifeless in the curbs as his boots pounded the pavement. There were other safe havens, dotted the map in each borough. He decided to walk, hand clutching his phone, just in case. Maybe he would show up, expecting Clint. Or maybe he wouldn’t be coming back at all.

            He remembered sitting on the bathroom floor last year, in between the happy haze of champagne wiping his memory and the draining effort of his rants.

            Phil stayed with him after that. SHIELD still sent them out into the field together and no major incidents marred or mangled them and Clint thanked luck or god or whomever, every second. But he still saw the lingering pain in Phil’s eyes. He kicked a chunk of ice.

            Maybe it was a generational thing, Clint thought. Phil was always pointing out that he was too old for him. The ring remained tucked in the back of their shared sock drawer at their safe house. Phil never mentioned the botched proposal again, but Clint knew that he thought of it when their evenings grew quiet and Clint lay draped over Phil’s lap, snoring.

            He checked the first apartment; it was empty and coated in dust. He shut the door and started toward the next, passing several smiling couples in the street. Maybe Phil saw them too and decided to nurse his wounds over last year. Alone.

            Clint would have been more comfortable if Phil laughed or cried about it; but there was this wall blocking off that part of him now, even when they slept together or ate. It cast a pall over them. Clint didn’t want to bring it up either, even if he felt that it was his doing.

            The second apartment was empty as well. The sun only peeked behind the brownstones now. The air vibrated as it did with every holiday in New York. He hoped that not one of them would be disappointed this year. And he had the one thing that would make Phil smile.           

            “I don’t know if you’re back in town yet. I’m at Bunker 4-B. I have something for you. It’s pretty important. Meet me there, I guess? Barton out.”

            His legs were tired after walking mile after mile that day, checking all of the New York safe houses. It might have been a lack of breakfast that generated a sharp pang in his belly when he passed by that small jewelry store, or the cold or a cramp. It was the feeling that something was missing.

            After he left the shop, he chuckled. He must have looked either criminal or desperate when he paid for the ring in cash. It was silver. 

            He felt the small fuzzy box in his pocket. It reassured him as he made his way back. He pulled out his phone once more. No missed calls. He felt his pulse pound in his temples as he left Phil a short message.

           

\+ + +

           

            His heart deflated and his limbs burned. He marched back, fueled by disappointment and worry.

            But upon seeing his apartment lights on, his knees buckled and he just stood there in the snow. He checked his watch, but he knew midnight had not come yet. He could do nothing but pace in the snow, wearing down a path through the snow to the concrete sidewalk, feeling the box and his keys rustle in his parka’s pocket.

            A shadow passed in front of the window. Phil would be expecting him soon. He couldn’t leave him hanging.

            Fifteen minutes after that thought occurred to him, he unlocked the doors and walked up to his apartment. Phil opened the door before he had a chance to unlock it.

            “Clint!” He pulled him inside and lunged at him, nuzzling his neck, licking into his mouth. He rested his forehead on Clint’s. “It’s good to see you. So good.”

            “Hey, Phil.”

            “Come sit. I’ve got food, I’ve got wine. Even those stupid little hats.”

            He led Clint to the living room. Lo mein, rice, egg rolls, mysterious clumps of chicken drowned in sauce and soon-to-be-ignored steamed veggies were laid out on the black coffee table. Plates and silverware were set beside them—Phil knew Clint couldn’t handle chopsticks.

            “Smells good.”

            Phil clasped his hands together, looking hopeful. He rushed off to the kitchen and popped a couple bottles. “The place that we like was closed. Hopefully this will be as good,” Phil called from the kitchen.

            “Champagne and take-out Chinese, Phil? You’re too much. I don’t deserve you.” Phil returned with two plastic glasses filled to the brim.

            Phil draped himself over Clint as they ate, just content to be back in New York with Barton.

            “Is there anything you’re thinking about?” Clint asked. Phil paused and shook his head. “Any regrets? Best to air them out before the New Year arrives, right?”

            “None.”

            “Are you sure?”

            Phil turned to him. “Why do you ask?” He slurped his noodles.

            Clint sighed. “No reason.” The small box jutted into his hip, but he didn’t want to disturb Phil. He would’ve dealt with it all night as long as Coulson was comfortable.           

            They watched the clock. He nudged Phil, saying he had to go to the bathroom.

            Clint tore open the small box in the bedroom, admiring it’s shine. He reached to the very back corner of the sock drawer. He pulled out the other small box. He jumped when Phil came in.

            “Clint? It’s almost midnight.”

            The archer walked over to his handler. He didn’t get on one knee, but wordlessly slid the ring onto Phil’s finger and put on his own. Phil’s mouth hung open. He started to mouth words, but none came.

            It was 12:02 a.m.

            “I-I know what I said last year,” Clint started. “But...I don’t know. I want this because you do. And I want you to be happy.”

            “But you—“

            “Like I said, I know what said last year. I was getting caught up in the concepts and everything. I was over thinking it. But…”

            Phil sat them down on the bed. The light was low and remaining Christmas lights danced outside, silhouetting Phil.

            “But we’re already practically married, you know. Half of SHIELD knows about us for crying out loud. If we’re just two rings and a piece a paper away then…why the hell not?”

            Phil laughed. “I guess we haven’t been very subtle lately.”

            “I don’t care about that. But…let’s do this, Phil.”

            “Do what, Clint?”

            Clint shook his head and snickered. “I knew you’d make me say it.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s get married.”

            Phil leaned back and put his arms behind his head. “Alright.”

            “That’s it?”

            Phil pulled him onto the bed. “Well like you said, we’re practically already married. This right here is just the formalities.”

 

\+ + +

           

           Clint snuggled up next to him, leaving the champagne in the kitchen to go flat, letting the Chinese food go cold, letting the ring settle on his finger, letting Phil ramble on about his mission, thanking the stars that he’s back for at least one more New Year’s Eve and letting all the danger and violence of the world fade away while Phil smiled down at him.

           

           

 


End file.
